


Outta My System

by hannasus



Series: Something Like Fate [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, F/M, MIT Felicity Smoak, One Night Stands, Pre-Island Oliver Queen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannasus/pseuds/hannasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MIT-sophomore Felicity Smoak meets college drop-out Oliver Queen at a bar in Boston.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outta My System

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my awesome betas MachaSWicket and tenhoursinthelab for all the help and cheerleading. Any mistakes are mine and not theirs.

This is all Amber’s fault.

Amber is the one who wanted to go out tonight, and Amber is the one who had the bright idea to try one of the bars by Fenway where she’d heard there were lots of hot BU and UMass guys when the Red Sox were playing out of town. Felicity was skeptical, but she let Amber talk her into it, because she liked the idea of doing something—anything—other than spending another Saturday night drinking cheap beer at the Muddy Charles with the same people she saw in class every week.

Which is how Felicity ended up sitting by herself at the bar of the Cask ’n Flagon, being hit on by a total creep. Because of course Amber stood her up. Of _course_ she did. That’s what Amber does, and one of these days Felicity is going to learn that lesson and stop expecting her friend to actually show up places.

“You’re really fine, you know that?” the guy says, leaning in to talk to her. Gross. She hates that word in that context. _Fine._ Ugh. What is this, the 1980s? The sad thing is he wouldn’t be half-bad looking if he didn’t talk like such a creep—and if he didn’t reek of Axe body spray and desperation.

“Thanks, but I’m not interested,” she tells him, scooting as far away from him as she can without actually vacating her barstool.

“I’m not usually into goth chicks or whatever, but there’s just something about you,” he says, stubbornly undeterred.

“Lucky me,” she mutters under her breath.

“I’ll bet you know you’re fine, huh? You probably have guys telling you that all the time, ha ha.” He leans in even closer, his shoulder bumping against hers. “So, what’s a girl like you doing here all alone?” _Annnnd_ his breath smells like onions. Blech. Amber is officially dead to her.

“Waiting for someone,” Felicity says through gritted teeth. She cranes her neck, searching the crowd, hoping against hope that Amber has actually decided to show up.

“A girl like you shouldn’t be all alone. How about I keep you company until your friend gets here.”

“How about no?” Felicity says firmly.

“What are you drinking?” he asks, peering at her half-empty glass. “I’ll buy you a drink.” It’s like talking to a brick wall. The guy is absolutely determined not hear what she’s saying.

“I don’t want a—”

But he’s already flagging down the bartender. “Give us another of whatever she’s drinking,” he says, ignoring her.

“ _No,_ ” she tells the bartender. “Don’t. I’m not staying.” Screw Amber, she is not waiting around a second longer. Felicity grabs her purse and slides off the barstool. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m leaving.”

“Hey, don’t go,” he protests, and makes a grab for her arm.

She twists out of his grasp and spins around, desperate to make her escape—

—and promptly crashes straight into the chest of a very tall, very cuteguy. Like, seriously _smoking hot._ “Whoa,” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” the cute guy says to her, beaming down at like he knows her or something. His hands come to rest on her shoulders lightly, his fingers just barely touching her, and all she can do is stare at him open-mouthed, because _what is even happening right now?_

And then he bends down like he’s about to kiss her cheek and she’s so stunned she can’t move—it’s like she’s been teleported into some kind of weird alternate universe where she’s the human equivalent of catnip for dudes. But instead of kissing her, Cute Guy’s lips stop near her ear and he whispers: “Play along if you want help getting away from this guy.”

And then she gets it. And _oh hell yes,_ she will absolutely play along if it gets Creepy Guy off her back. She throws her arms around Cute Guy’s neck with pretended enthusiasm and rises up on her toes to plant a kiss on _his_ cheek. “Where have you been, boo bear?” she demands in her best bubbly girlfriend voice, and follows it up by punching him playfully in the arm.

Cute Guy gives her a head tilt, his mouth curling in amusement. “Well, s _chmoopy pants,_ ” he says, smirking at her, “I guess I got mixed up about where we were supposed to meet.”

“Oh, you big silly,” she says, wrapping her hands around his bicep and tugging him away from Creepy Guy.

Cute Guy lets her steer him away, but only after directing a pretty intense don’t-mess-with-my-girl glare at Creepy Guy, who’s already backing away with his hands up in the universal sign for _hey man, sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it._

Which actually makes her even madder, because the jerk wasn’t willing to take _her_ no for answer, but the second another guy stakes his claim on her—like she’s property to be handed from one man to another—he throws up the white flag and flees the scene? Ugh. Men.

As soon as they’re a safe distance from Creepy Guy she lets go of Cute Guy and backs away from him, conscious of the fact that she may very well have just leapt out of the frying pan and into the proverbial fire. But at least this guy’s breath doesn’t smell like onions, so that’s something, she supposes.

To her relief, Cute Guy doesn’t try to close the space between them, he just stands there looking at her with his brow knitted. “Are you okay?” he asks, suddenly serious. “That guy didn’t—?”

“I’m fine,” she tells him. “Thanks for the save.”

“Do you need a ride home?” he asks, and then, as if he’s just realized how that sounds, quickly adds, “I mean, I can call you a cab if you want.”

She shakes her head, because she sure as hell cannot afford cab fare on her work study salary, and anyway she’s perfectly capable of getting herself home on the T. “Thanks, but I’m good.”

“All right,” he says. “If you’re sure.” And then he turns and walks away, without hitting on her or expecting anything at all in return for his good deed. Huh.

“Hey!” she calls out. “Wait.”

He turns back around, eyebrows raised. He is _really_ cute, even if his hair is kind of douchey. But he’s got kind eyes and a nice smile—and Felicity has always been a total sucker for a nice smile. It’s kind of her Kryptonite.

Amy Winehouse is blaring from the bar’s speakers and a group of people in Sox jerseys are streaming through the gap between them. Felicity elbows her way through them, ignoring the dirty looks it earns her, until she’s standing in front of him again. “What’s your name?” she asks.

“Oliver.”

“Well, Oliver, I think I owe you a drink.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me anything.” He pauses, and there’s that smirk again—she probably shouldn’t find it sexy, but she does, she really, really does. “But if you’re propositioning me of your own free will … ”

“Let’s not get carried away,” she says, laughing. “I’m offering to buy you a drink. That’s all.”

He does that head tilt thing again, which she’s sort of starting to love. And has she mentioned that his eyes are blue? Like, _insanely_ blue. “You didn’t tell me your name,” he says.

“It’s Felicity,” she says, trying to act like this is totally normal for her, like she goes around all the time offering to buy drinks for super hot guys who’ve just swooped in to save her from a total creeper.

He smiles. “In that case, I accept your offer, Felicity.”

* * *

Three rounds of drinks later (Oliver insisted on paying for everything after the first one), Felicity is well and truly smitten. He’s not her usual type—far from it, actually—but there’s just something about him. On the surface he’s exactly the sort of pretty, spoiled rich boy she usually despises, but she can’t help feeling like there’s more to him than that—a subtle hint of gravity behind the boyish charm, like he’s got hidden depths that have yet to be explored. Or maybe that’s just her imagination talking. Or all the beers. Or the way he smiles at her. Whatever. He’s cute.

The best thing about it is that he’s not even from here. He’s only in town for the weekend, so there’s no complications, no question of compatibility or commitment. It can just be one night of fun with a hot guy. Win win.

She’s been making her best hearteyes at him for the last hour, so when he eventually gets around to asking if she wants to get out of there she only narrowly manages not to do an actual fist pump because _finally!_ Thank. God. She was seriously starting to doubt her powers of flirting.

They barely even make it out of the bar before she hooks her hand around his neck and drags his mouth down to hers. Which is so not her, she is not usually that girl, but here she is, being that girl anyway. He leans in eagerly and opens his mouth to her. He tastes like beer and something sharper and smokier, like scotch maybe.

“Whoops,” she says, pulling away a little, but not _too_ far away. “I guess that was kind of forward, wasn’t it?”

“I hope there’s a lot more where that came from,” he says, his voice low and breathy. And then he’s pushing her into an alcove off the sidewalk and kissing her back. His tongue thrusts hungrily into her mouth and she reciprocates just as hungrily. He is an excellent kisser, it turns out. Far and away the best she’s ever encountered in her not-so-extensive experience. She could go on kissing him forever, basically, he’s that good.

When his lips finally move off of hers she lets out a little whine of protest—which quickly dissolves into a contented sigh as he mouths a damp trail down her neck. The scrape of his stubble over the sensitive skin of her throat makes her shiver, and the way his hands are tangled in her hair and dragging her head back starts the heat building in her stomach. His hips press up against her and _oh yeah,_ he is definitely on board this train with her. She slips her thigh between his legs and is rewarded with a low growl, which is just— _wow._ She actually made a guy growl. That’s a new milestone for her scrapbook.

She kind of can’t believe she’s doing this. Normally she hates people like this: making-out-in-public kinds of people. And now she’s one of them and she has no regrets. Zero.

“My car,” Oliver pants against her collarbone. “That way.” He waves vaguely down the street, arousal making his movements clumsy.

“Right,” Felicity gasps. Because as much fun as she’s having fun here on the sidewalk, she could be having _even more fun_ somewhere less public. She grabs his face and drags his mouth up to hers for one last kiss before extricating herself from his arms. “Come on,” she says, pulling him down the sidewalk.

They walk hand-in-hand for several blocks until he finally tugs her to a stop next to a silver Mercedes convertible. He opens the passenger door for her and waits until she’s settled inside before closing it. The interior is leather, of course, and it smells like luxury and, incongruously, french fries.

As soon as he climbs in beside her he twists in his seat, reaching for her. His hand comes up to her face, stroking her cheek almost reverently before sliding into her hair to pull her mouth to his. She has to lean over the console to kiss him and the kissing part is great, but it’s also kind of awkward. They’re too far apart, there’s too much between them, and even when she tucks her leg up underneath her and turns to face him she can’t get close enough to satisfy her. He must feel the same, because he keeps shifting in his seat, jockeying for a better position as he kisses her.

And then his elbow bumps against the horn, the loud blast startling them apart, and they both dissolve into laughter. “Oops,” he says, smiling against her forehead.

She pulls back to look at him. “Your place?” she says hopefully.

He grimaces, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. “I’m crashing on my buddy’s couch this weekend.”

“Right,” she says. “Then I guess my dorm it is.” And she has never been gladder that she hacked the room assignment system to get herself at the top of the list for a single than she is _right this second._

He leans in for another kiss but she pushes him away. “Nuh uh, mister, get this car started. Come on, mush, mush.”

He gives her a look—like he can’t believe she just said that to him, but also like he wants to tear her clothes off right this very second—and it almost melts her resolve. But then she thinks about all the people walking by on the sidewalk, and how very much she does _not_ want to be seen having sex in a car on a public street. She gives his shoulder another shove, and he twists around and starts the car. “All right,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m mushing.”

She has to give him directions because apparently none of the three schools he’s dropped out of so far have been in Boston. Has she mentioned that he is so not her usual type?

Of course they have to park about a mile from her residence hall, and then there’s the awkward business of signing him in at the front desk, but finally— _finally_ —they make it up to her room. He steps in for a kiss as soon as she’s got the door closed. She shrugs out of her jacket and lets it fall in a heap on the floor, which she probably shouldn’t do because it’s leather and pretty much the nicest thing she owns, but _oh well,_ she’s too busy kissing a cute guy to care. His hands snake around to squeeze her ass and the next thing she knows he’s lifting her up and carrying her over to the bed.

And it’s really hot and exactly what she wanted, but at the same time something’s changed. It doesn’t feel the same as it did outside the bar. Before she felt weightless and carefree, almost like a dream, like she was standing outside herself watching it happen to someone else.

But now, here, in the harsh light of her dorm room, lying on her creaky twin bed with him leaning over her, it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore. It feels real. Because now they’re alone and it’s actually happening. And she’s made the fatal mistake of letting herself _think_ about it, which is inevitably when things start to go wrong.

Ugh. And she was doing so well up until now, too. She was so dazzled by his eyes and his smile that it was easy not to let herself think about anything. Like how she probably isn’t his usual type either. And how, even though she’s a sophomore, she’s only eighteen and he’s twenty-two. And how a guy this hot and this rich undoubtedly has girls throwing themselves at him everywhere he goes. The kind of girls who routinely throw themselves at hot men and therefore have a lot of experience at it. Which Felicity very definitely does not.

Which was sort of the whole point of coming out tonight. To throw caution to the wind and just let go. To try something new. With someone new. Someone exactly like Oliver. But now that she’s actually got him here in her room, she’s terrified she won’t know what to do with him. That she won’t measure up.

He must sense that something’s wrong because he stops kissing her, which is just so, so unfortunate. “You okay?” he asks, frowning slightly.

She nods and forces a smile. “Yep! Great!” she chirps, trying to will her brain to _shut up._ Because he is _gorgeous,_ and more importantly he actually seems nice, and she wants more than anything to be able to relax and just enjoy this, instead of letting herself be sabotaged by her stupid brain.

His frown deepens, like he doesn’t believe her, and he rolls off of her, which— _arrgh,_ this is not how this is supposed to be going. “You’re not—you’re not a virgin are you?”

“No! God! Definitely not,” she assures him. “I’ve totally done this before.”

He exhales in relief. “Okay, good.”

“Once,” she mumbles at the ceiling. Which is not something she actually planned on admitting, but somehow it just slips out.

His face softens and his hand comes to rest on her arm, squeezing gently. “Hey, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re not comfortable—”

“No!” she protests. “I’m very comfortable. Super comfortable! The comfortablest. I want this and I want you. I’m just … I’m a little nervous, I guess.”

“You don’t have to be nervous with me.”

“Yeah, you say that, but you seem like a guy with pretty extensive experience in this department, and I am … not so much. I’m just afraid I’ll be a disappointment, is all.” Which is exactly the kind of over-sharing she should probably be trying to avoid. Weirdly, though, he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Felicity,” he says, gazing at her with an intensity that makes her stomach do flip-flops. “You’re not going to disappoint me, no matter what happens or doesn’t happen tonight. Okay?”

She laughs awkwardly. “Ha ha, yeah, that just shows how little you know me, because I am actually an expert at making a fool out of myself at the worst possible times.”

He smiles—and oh god he really does have a great smile. “This is not going to be one of those times.”

“But how do you know? I’m kind of crazy good at embarrassing myself, I’m sure I can find a way to do this wrong if I set my mind to it.”

He shakes his head, still smiling. “You’re thinking about it like it’s a driving test or something, like you’re going to be graded on your performance.”

“Well, yeah,” she says, giving him her best _duh_ look. “I mean, aren’t I?”

He laughs. “No! I am not going to grade you. It’s supposed to be fun. The whole point is to relax and just do whatever comes naturally. Live in the moment.” He reaches up and gently taps her forehead. “Stop thinking so hard, MIT.”

“Yeah, but see, that’s kind of the problem. Not thinking isn’t exactly my strong suit. My brain’s pretty much always going at a million miles an hour and—”

He silences her with a kiss. It’s slower and sweeter than his other kisses, and much too brief. “You’re thinking again,” he murmurs against her lips.

She exhales a breath that comes out as a sort of moan and he kisses her again, harder and deeper this time, just like she likes it, and _fuck it,_ she thinks. So what if she’s nervous? She is with a boy who is _cute_ and _nice,_ and that is not a combination that occurs very often in nature and she is going to make the most of it. Right. Fucking. Now.

“Too many clothes,” she groans as her hands work their way under his shirt to caress his abs.

In one motion he sits up and yanks his shirt over his head, then quickly shucks off his jeans, leaving him naked except for a pair of heather gray Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Felicity takes a deep breath and follows his lead, pulling off her top and shimmying out of her black skinny jeans. Thank god she had enough foresight to wear her best bra and her panties tonight—black satin, not-quite matching, but close enough to pass.

“You’re beautiful,” Oliver says, gazing at her appreciatively. She feels herself blush but before she has time to feel too self-conscious he’s leaning in to kiss her again. She rises up to meet him halfway, her fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer. His palm presses against her stomach, pushing her back onto the bed and the roughness of his hand on her bare skin sends a wave of shivers down her spine.

He kisses his way down her throat to her collarbone, and then he’s unfastening her bra and his mouth is on her breasts, and oh yeah, this feels nice, this is good. Her back arches as his teeth graze her nipple and she feels him smile against her skin. And then his mouth moves lower, skimming across her stomach and depositing a trail of wet kisses that leave her quivering beneath him.

“Felicity?” he murmurs into her hipbone.

“Mmmm?” she breathes, feeling lightheaded.

“I want to taste you,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Is that okay with you?”

His words run through her like an electric shock. “Yes,” she moans.

“I didn’t hear you,” he says, licking a path along the waistband of her underwear.

“Yes, please,” she gasps.

His fingers dip beneath the waistband, tugging gently at the elastic. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she says desperately. “Oh god, yes.”

His mouth moves lower, ghosting over the front of her underwear for one tantalizing moment before coming to rest on her inner thigh. She sucks in a ragged breath as his stubble scrapes over her skin. He kisses his way down, almost to her knee and then back up, pausing to suck at a spot just below her hip crease before moving to the other leg and starting the process all over again. By then Felicity is writhing with desire, unable to hold herself still as the ache builds deep inside her.

“Oliver,” she moans. “Oliver, _please._ ”

“Please what?” he asks, arch and teasing.

“Please … I need … ”

“What do you need, Felicity? Tell me.”

“I need you,” she moans. “I need to feel you.”

Finally— _finally_ —his mouth moves up her leg again, until his lips are pressed against the fabric between her legs. “Yes,” she pants, arching towards him. “More of that.”

He laughs, his breath hot against her, and then he hooks his fingers under her panties and peels them off. Some distant part of her brain tries to tell her she ought to feel tense and exposed, but she doesn’t, all she feels right now is need. And then Oliver’s hand are on her waist, yanking her down on the mattress, and he’s kneeling at the foot of the bed with her legs over her shoulders and lifting up her hips.

Felicity gasps as his tongue plunges inside her, her hands clenching in the bedspread beneath her. His tongue moves inside her and then withdraws, laving her entrance before flicking against her clit. Her body contracts in pleasure but he holds on tight, his fingers digging into her hips to keep her pressed against his mouth.

His tongue teases delicate circles around her clit, the scrape of his stubble providing just the right amount of friction, and then his mouth closes over her folds and he sucks, his teeth gently grazing against her sensitive nub. She cries out in pleasure and opens her legs wider, wanting more— _needing_ more. In response he hums against her and the vibrations send another wave of electricity coursing through her body.

Her toes curl into his back as he alternates between kissing, licking, and sucking at her. She can feel the pressure building inside her. She’s close to the edge—oh god, so close. Just a little more, just—

He slips a single finger inside her and that’s all it takes to send her crashing over the edge. She lets go and loses herself to the sensation exploding through her, which is more powerful than anything she’s experienced before. Not that she hasn’t had orgasms before—she’s had her share, but never like this. Nothing like this. Talk about milestones for the scrapbook. _Wow._

When she finally comes back to herself and opens her eyes, Oliver is gazing up at her with his chin propped on her thigh. “So I guess that was okay?” he says, smirking.

“More than okay.” She reaches for him, curling her fingers in his hair, and he turns into her touch, pressing a kiss against her palm. “Come here,” she says, tugging him towards her, because she’s not even close to being done with him yet. He complies readily, crawling up the bed until his mouth finds hers. She can taste herself on his lips and she licks all around his mouth, lapping up the last of her own juices.

He groans and kisses her harder, sucking her tongue into his mouth. She can feel his erection pressing urgently against her leg, and she reaches down and slips a hand inside his underwear. He jerks against her as she strokes him, and for once she feels loose and uninhibited and in control of herself, all of her anxieties washed away by that glorious orgasm.

“Felicity,” he gasps as her other hand traces over his abs.

“Hmmm?” she hums against his throat, and sucks at his skin hard enough to leave a bruise. Or at least she hopes it will bruise, because she really wants to leave her mark on him.

“I want you,” he pants, writhing in her grasp, and she loves it, this role reversal. Loves that she’s the one in charge now, and he’s the one who’s putty in her hands. “Please? Will you let me fuck you?”

God, he’s actually begging for her. It makes her feel powerful, and also even more turned on, which she didn’t actually think was possible, but apparently she has reserves yet to be tapped.

“Do you have a condom?” she asks. There are a few freebies from the health center in her bedside table, but she suspects he’s the kind of guy who has a favorite brand, and who doesn’t leave the house without one.

And apparently she’s right, because the next thing she knows he’s wrenching himself away from her and scrambling around on the floor for his pants. He pulls a condom out of his wallet, holding it in his teeth as he yanks down his underwear before climbing back onto the bed.

She snatches the foil packet away from him and tears it open with her teeth. A sound halfway between a whimper and a moan escapes his lips and she smiles in satisfaction, reaching for him. His eyes flutter closed as she carefully rolls the condom on, just like she learned in health class— _thank you, Coach Peterson._

When the condom’s on she reaches one hand around to grab his ass, pulling him towards her as she holds his cock firmly in her other hand. She guides him to her entrance and then stops, holding it there to tease him.

“Fe-li-ci-ty,” he stutters, drawing out each syllable of her name in his longing. She’s tempted to torment him a little more, but her own desire has kindled almost as hot as his, and it turns out she can’t wait. She takes him in all at once, biting her lip as she feels herself stretching to accommodate him.

He shudders as he sinks into her, and then stops and gazes at her. “You okay?” he asks, his thumb stroking tenderly across her cheekbone.

She nods. It feels tight, but in a good way—in the best possible way. She shifts her hips to take him in even deeper and smiles at the way it makes his breath hitch.

He goes slowly at first, sliding in and out of her with careful control. She matches his rhythm so that they’re moving in tandem, her muscles clenching around him with each thrust. She’s still vibrating from her first orgasm and it doesn’t take long before her movements grow more fevered and her fingernails are digging into his skin, urging him to go faster, harder. He bites down on her shoulder and hits just the right angle, and Felicity’s head falls back as a second orgasm overtakes her.

She’s still cresting the wave when she feels his thrusts speed up, growing more desperate, and she curls her fingers into his ass cheeks to urge him on. His breaths are coming quick and shallow, and she can feel every muscle in his body straining with effort as he slams into her. “Felicity,” he gasps, his arms tightening around her as he comes.

He slumps against her and for several long moments they just lie there together, their chests heaving and their sweaty limbs entwined. It’s a moment of perfect peace and contentment, and Felicity revels in it, her fingers tracing abstract patterns over the smooth planes of his back. She wishes she could bottle this feeling and carry it with her always.

Oliver lifts his head and smiles up at her. “Hey.”

She grins at him, her fingers coming up to smooth the hair off his forehead. “Hey.”

“Hang on,” he says, grimacing as he pulls out of her. She misses the contact as soon as he’s gone, but it only takes him a moment to dispose of the condom before he’s crawling back onto the bed and wrapping her up in his arms.

“Mmm,” she sighs happily, snuggling up against him.

“You doing okay?” he asks, pressing a kiss into the top of her head.

“Never better,” she tells him.

“Good.”

“Did I do all right?” she asks, unable to help herself. Because, yeah, okay, he _seemed_ to enjoy it, but she needs to know for sure. For _science._

He sighs in amused exasperation. “What did I tell you? It’s not a test, you weren’t being graded.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says impatiently, “but if you _had_ to give me a grade, what would it be?”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re a crazy person, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told. But seriously, if you were grading on a curve—”

“Definitely an A.”

She lifts her eyes to his. “Really?”

“Really,” he assures her. “A plus, even.”

“Yes!” she says, pumping her fist in the air.

He laughs, pulling her closer, and she settles into the warmth of his chest, feeling happier than she’s felt in a long time.

* * *

It’s barely light when she wakes, pulled out of sleep by the sound of Oliver fumbling around for his clothes. He’s bent over, retrieving his pants from the floor, and she lets herself enjoy the view for a moment before she sits up. “Never would have pegged you as an early riser.”

He turns around and smiles at her. “I’m not, but as of five minutes ago my car’s on an expired meter, and my dad’s threatened to disown me if I get anymore parking tickets.” He pulls on his pants and reaches for his shirt, which is hanging over the back of her desk chair.

“I wish you weren’t leaving today,” she sighs.

He tugs his shirt down and moves to the bed, perching on the edge beside her. “Me too.” He cups her face and kisses her softly. “Look, Felicity—”

“Don’t make promises,” she tells him. “Last night was perfect, don’t ruin it with lies.”

He nods solemnly. “Tommy’s graduating in a few months. I don’t know when I’ll be coming back to Boston—or _if_ I’ll be coming back.”

“I know.”

“But if I do … can I call you?” They exchanged numbers last night at the bar, but she’s not naïve enough to think she’s ever likely to hear from him again.

She nods. “But no promises.”

“And if you’re ever in Starling City—”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs.

He gives her that head tilt, the one that made her fall for him in the first place. “If you’re ever in Starling City,” he persists, “you can call me—if you want. And if I’m free, maybe we can get together. Fair?”

“Fair,” she agrees.

He kisses her again, long and slow, before pulling away. “Take care of yourself, MIT.”

She smiles happily. “Goodbye, Oliver.”

After he’s gone Felicity sinks back into bed and pulls the covers up under her chin, feeling pretty damn proud of herself. Okay, so maybe Amber’s not so dead to her after all.


End file.
